


The Arms of London Bridge

by takadainmate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-01
Updated: 2010-09-01
Packaged: 2020-12-31 02:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21057425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takadainmate/pseuds/takadainmate
Summary: It'd only been a matter of time, John thinks dourly, before it came to this.





	The Arms of London Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> Cienna asked for John/Sherlock plus tentacles. This is what she got.

It'd only been a matter of time, John thinks dourly, before it came to this.

It's night. Late. It always seems to be night these days. Sometime on a Tuesday, maybe Wednesday by now, so there's not all that many people hanging around London Bridge. Certainly none hanging around under it, where it's full of shadows and crushed, empty larger cans and smells like piss and rotting fish. It's cold, and the feel of slimy, wet appendages sliding over his cheeks and up his sleeves is not helping.

"Sherlock," John warns, because really, this is too much weird for them. _Surely_.

But Sherlock just tells him, in a low voice, "Hush, John. I think it likes you."

And no. Really. _Really_. No. 

"The feeling isn't mutual," John replies, going for scathing, but it comes out more of a sort of panicked yelp when the creature, whatever it is, slides a third appendage- _tentacle_; best say it as it is, John- round his waist. John can feel the edges of it trying to push up his shirt. 

Sherlock is just standing there, watching in what looks a lot like rapt fascination. The bastard.

"How exactly," John wants to know, "Does my getting molested by tentacles aid in this investigation?"

"By arms," Sherlock corrects. 

"What?" 

The tentacle on John's cheek is stroking its way down to his neck, curling around, and John can feel the strange rubbery texture of it, smoother than he'd ever of expected. It smells of Thames water, and it's not pleasant.

"Arms, John," Sherlock says. "An octopus has arms."

"Oh right," John replies dryly. "An octopus, is it? And here was me thinking there weren't any octopi in the Thames. Stupid of me."

"Octopodes," Sherlock says. 

Once he's is done with the octopus, John decides, he's going to _murder_ Sherlock. Let him solve that one. 

"I don't think it is an octopus though," Sherlock goes on. 

He takes a step closer to the water's edge, trying to look, but even John can tell it's too dark to see much of anything, and the octopus-squid-monster thing squeezes its arms more tightly around John's neck and waist. John feels the power in the muscles there. How easily they could snap him.

"_Sherlock_," John warns again, hissing as one of the creature's arms slides over his shoulder, pushing down heavily. It's testing his strength, John thinks, and he holds himself still.

This time, at least, Sherlock looks vaguely concerned. "Oh," he says. "I didn't expect that." He pauses, and John can tell he's thinking, forming an answer to some question John didn't even realise needed to be asked yet. At least the not-an-octopus creature got one up on him. "It makes sense, now," Sherlock concludes, nodding to himself, and John really doesn't like the way he backs off.

No point putting off the inevitable when you've got tentacle-arms twisting their way into places tentacle-arms were never supposed to go. 

"What makes sense?" he asks. 

"The killings," Sherlock says. He looks around, looks at John and at the arm-tentacles wrapped around him, then fishes his phone out of his pocket. "Hold your ground," Sherlock tells him, which is entirely not at all useful.

"The killings," John repeats slowly. Sherlock taps away at his phone, eyes narrowed in concentration. The points of the creature's appendages- John is going to go with appendages. It's less disturbing- press almost painfully against John's skin, down his back and across his stomach. They're so bloody cold, the creature's skin is slippery like oil, and John can feel the suction and he's really starting to feel _violated_.

"Hm," is the only reply John gets. Then, "Make yourself small."

"Make myself-" John begins, cuts himself off. "How am I supposed to do that? I'm me-sized. I can't spontaneously shrink-" 

"Crouch down, curl up, pull your arms in," Sherlock clarifies, looking up at John, fixing him with his most intense stare. Perhaps, John considers, he's becoming a little hysterical from the way the creature is wrapping itself around him, poking and prodding like it's looking for something. Something that John is never ever going to think about.

"Oh," is all John can manage to say. He curls in on himself, and the tentacles half-hold him as he tries to pull his legs up. It's absolutely the creepiest thing John's ever experienced. This thing could easily drag him out into the water and drown him there and... oh. Right. Now John can see what Sherlock is thinking. That maybe it's this creature that has been drowning people and ripping off body parts. Now that John thinks about it, there was poison in some of the bodies found, and John remembers something about octopus- octopi- whatever it was- carrying toxins. Not a happy thought when one is held in the very intimate embrace of such an animal.

"The poison wasn't lethal," Sherlock states, like he's just read John's mind. This time John can understand it though; he's small and he's trapped and they can't see the thing's body, but by the size of its tentacles it can't be exactly small. 

Arms. 

"Even so," John says. He's starting to shiver from the icy-cold hold of the creature all over him. "You're not going to help me?"

"The victims that were ripped apart," Sherlock explains, "Were almost certainly killed because the creature took them to be intruding males."

John grits his teeth. Somehow, he knew it was going to end up like this. "Intruding males?" he asks.

"I believe the creature is looking to mate."

Yes. Yes, from the way the _creature_ is feeling John up he's got that impression too. 

"Alright," John says, trying to keep himself calm and his teeth from chattering. 

He doesn't want to ask this, because he knows what the answer is going to be, but if it takes his mind even for a second off of where one tentacle is suckering its way across the backs of John's thighs then he's really not going to complain. "So, the victims found drowned were what?"

"Failed attempts at mating," Sherlock replies. 

That's _exactly_ what John had been afraid of. 

More to the point. "How is making myself small going to prevent... that?" 

"Octopodes," Sherlock tells him, "Prefer to mate with larger, more mature females."

Wonderful, John thinks. Oh, joy. He's trying to make himself look like a baby octopus.

Out the corner of his eye John sees Sherlock pull himself to his full height. He's watching the creature's arms closely, his hands stuffed deeply into his pockets.

"I won't let it take you," Sherlock assures him. He sounds like he means it too and, well, coming from Sherlock it's almost comforting. John can almost believe it. 

He remembers, though, how the limbs of victims had been torn clean off their bodies, their heads snapped like twigs, and John can feel the strength of the creature curling around him. He won't let that happen to Sherlock. No matter how brilliant the man is, no matter how resourceful, if it comes down to brute strength and animal instinct Sherlock is going to lose.

So John tucks himself closer, loosens his limbs in an attempt to make himself look weak, and they wait in silence, John looking at Sherlock, and Sherlock looking back at him. 

There's a moment when the creature starts to drag him towards the river and John thinks, shit, this is it. Sherlock tenses, ready to move, but then John can feel the arms unwinding, letting him go, and he lets them. He stays small and something like relaxed, warns Sherlock off. "Give it a minute. Give it another minute."

It dumps him along the tow path unceremoniously, its tentacles sliding back slowly into the river, disappearing inch by slow inch. It's freezing and it's wet on the ground and John doesn't even want to think about how dirty it is, but he lays still until the creature is completely gone.

In a second, Sherlock is all over him, pulling him to his feet and away, along the cobbled stones and up the grey, stone steps. Back to life, and light, and the city. Sherlock doesn't let him go.

"I'll admit," Sherlock says, his hand rubbing against John's arms. He lets himself shiver now. Lets his teeth chatter. "That was not my most successful hunt."

"Well," John allows, "You've never been up against a tentacle monster before."

Sherlock looks down at John like he's looking at one of his experiments; fascinated, focused, trying to work it all out in that amazing mind of his. He says, "True," and then he's smiling, despite everything, he's smiling and John _gets it_ because he grins back. It's ridiculous. It's absurd. There's a tentacle monster in the Thames and it just tried to mate with him and it's crazy. He laughs, and Sherlock laughs too. He might be back to being hysterical, and Sherlock might be insane anyway, but they're both there, not ripped to pieces and not drowned. At that moment, that's just about all John can think to ask for.

Well. That and a cup of tea.

**.End.**


End file.
